


Mama, Just Killed a Man

by grandfatherclock, theseasdancingotter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: widojest love, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-10 18:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20856206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseasdancingotter/pseuds/theseasdancingotter
Summary: She closes her eyes, divine words ripping out past her throat in a hum as she lowers her head. Her hair tumbles past her shoulders as she takes shaky breathes. The sounds of the group around her begin to numb out, numbaway,and Jester cantellthat the pink glyphs all around her areweak, weaker than theyshouldbe, she lackssomany of the components that she needs for this spell, is positively fuckingdrainedof magic. She has her faith, though, and sheremembersthe Traveler teaching something new to her, his elegant hands making pretty gestures in the air that she copied, biting the inside of her cheek.Please, she thinks, her heart thudding, her face a little flushed from how much has fuckinghappenedtoday,please, please, please—The Traveler’s voice is a gentle whisper in her ear.But we don’t have what we need. There is the depth in how he speaks, the words echoing and breaking out in her ear as ethereal handssqueezeher shoulder, and he sounds sosad, sosmall, where usually he’s sosmug, and—Not good enough,Jester thinks, eyes filled with tears.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH, I did a collab with the wonderful [@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Ekaterina is absolutely brilliant, and I adored working with her. I hope you all enjoy our collaborative work! Our prompts were _faith_ and _connections_.
> 
> Thank you to do [@dorcasdeadowes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcasdeadowes/pseuds/dorcasdeadowes) for beta'ing!

Jester stares numbly at Essik's dead body. Well, _corpse_—that’s the illustrative, artistic way to describe it. It's a funny word, _corpse_—she first heard it when she was reading one of those romantic novels Mama had on her, the ones with the pretty women in their gorgeous dresses, usually rumpled in some state of undress, maybe some leg teasingly on show. Their male counterparts were usually splayed beside them, shirt unbuttoned, eyes dark and _hot_, they were so _hot_, but he was a _detective_, and she was a _widow_, and Jester read that _word_, not knowing what it could possibly _mean_. She caught Blude standing outside Mama’s door, and tugged on the fabric of his pants until he finally told her, Jester pouting and giving him an innocent smile when he grumbled that _we really do need to check the books you read_. His voice was fond, though—it softened on _Jester_, and he shook his head as she giggled and ran away, her frilly red dress fluttering around her legs.

Jester kind of wants to run away right _now_, but _no_, she forces herself to look at Essik’s mangled, bloodied corpse. His dark purple skin is bruised and battered, and that careful coiff to his hair that she always _admired_ is a disheveled mess, the red leaking into the silver, onto the floor of the abandoned building they found after the ambush. It wasn’t supposed to be a _fight_, they just wanted to show him where they found evidence of Vollstreckers hiding out inside the Dynasty, so very close to the outskirts of Rosohna, and he agreed readily, his eyes lowering for a moment down to Caleb’s lips as Caleb asked for his presence, for his counsel. _That_ made her displeased, making her comment about how he _floats_ and being a general brat about his _dunamagic, Essik, it’s _honestly _a better word for it than dunamancy_. She beamed airily at him with her head held high like _his _is when he wants to impress upon them just how _smart_ he is. _Still think we don’t have anything to _teach _you?_

_Oh_, he said, kind of smirking, his dark eyes bright and searching, _entirely certain, Lavorre_. His black cloak was still around him, hanging and pooling onto the floor, all depthless and black and _brilliant_, it was so _pretty _and she cooed at it as Caleb talked more about the hideout they had uncovered, more about the strange heretical insignia they found in it, more about the _files_ with important information on high-ranking members of the Bright Queen’s council. His eyes sharpened at _that_, and Caleb nodded in confirmation, telling him they were targeting _you, Shadowhand._ Essik was so _still _at that, and _yeah_, he’s _normally _still, but this stillness was _stiff_, the expression on his face dark, his lips twisted into a grimace that reminded Jester of how he _mangled _that Scourger with a flick of his palm. _Call me Essik_, he said lightly to Caleb, still smug, still charming, but _oh,_ that frightening _rage_ in his eyes—

Jester would do _anything _to see that rage now, see him floating up higher than her with that self-satisfied grin, see him flirt with Caleb using his dunamantic magic and the curve of his lips, see him _alive _and _here_ and _with them_, because Essik Theylas is _dead_. Jester kept healing through the battle, healing like Caduceus, and she passed, onto Essik, some of her healing _too_. He was so far _away, _though_, _all she could manage were light little _Healing Word_s, light little divine incantations that glowed pink as she twisted her fingers in quick symbols, _begging_ to the Traveler as everyone fought, lightning breaking through the sky as Essik’s eyes glittered, and barlguras tearing through reality as Fjord concentrated on his new _sword_ with his jaw clenched, limbs twisting with Beau’s perfect punches as she stunned those wizard _fucks_, and _Cayleb_, fire was ripping through _Cayleb_.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, she thinks, but they were _clever_—Nott nearly _disintegrated_, and she dropped her crossbow with horror as she looked down at her hands, crumbling and twisting and turning to sand as she opened her mouth, lined with jagged teeth, to _shout, _to _scream_. Then the destructive pattern of fiery reds and yellows and oranges _interrupted_ the execution, Caleb’s _Counterspell _with his frightened face breaking through Nott’s premature death. Beau was nearly taken out _too_, she was so _close_ and the Vollstrecker _grabbed_ onto her shoulder, necrotic energy pulsing where his grip was making Beau _convulse_, her body twitching and leaking red until she was slumping, way _down_ to the ground. Jester was too far away to _meaningfully _help, too _slow_ as she tried to cast _faster _and _faster_ and _faster_, because _fuck_, concentrating on her _Spiritual Weapon _was _really _limiting the spells she could use, and it was Caduceus who got her up, grabbing onto her and shielding her body with his own, eyes narrowed and his staff held out. There were so many close _calls_, but Jester _really _thought they would pull through. Do well. Especially with the _Shadowhand_ at their side—

But then a Scourger cast _Daylight,_ their body trembling and blood leaking down their pale face, and suddenly Essik’s spells were no longer landing. He looked _horrified,_ the purple of his skin becoming more sallow, more _weak_ as his hand on his spellbook trembled, the arcane runes fitzing and uncertain around him. He tried _quickly _to _Counterspell_, eyes wide with recognition as the light began to filter around the Empire agent, the bastard who let out a broken and hollow laugh as Nott’s crossbow _bit_ into them, the tip visible from the other side through their torn shirt, lips quirked as they hissed, _Die, Crick_. The other soldiers began to move in tandem, began to focus their efforts _solely _on Essik, and he _snarled _as blood leaked down the side of his face, lightning tearing through him like planar facsimiles of swords, and he fucking _sank_ to the ground, to his _knees_, as shards of ice stabbed into his back, stabbed into him until he was falling _forward_. Jester tried to heal him, but she wasn’t fucking _quick _enough, tears staining her eyes, and another Vollstrecker _grinned, _pulling out his dagger, stabbing through the smooth cloak, through the depthless black, through until Essik was _all _too fucking still, through until Essik was _dead_.

And he _was_ dead. That wasn’t changed by how Caleb _shouted_ a string of Zemnian curses with a savage look to the way he was bracing his jaw that wasn’t quite _like _him, quite _like _the careful wizard she’s grown to know after all this time. He cast _Fireball_ at a far higher intensity than she was _used _to his _Fireballs_ being, and the flames tore through the flesh, the putrid smell of the Scourgers burning making her want to _gag_, even as she tried with her teary eyes for her spectral lollipop to tear _through_, tear _up_, bodies breaking apart under the direction of her divine magic. She kept looking back to _him_, to _Essik_, to _Essik dead on the ground_, and she slapped her hand on his shoulder as fast as she was able, casting a quick _Cure Wounds _that she _knew_ would probably _fail _but _fuck_, she needed to _try_, to have _faith, _all her power _comes_ from faith.

Her faith wasn’t rewarded this time, and all she could do was stare helplessly at his dead body, watch with tears streaking against the blood on her _own _face as she lifted a hand over her mouth, covering it to muffle her choked sob. _Fuck_, he’s _dead_, and it was _her _brilliant idea to bring him here, to see if he recognized anything that could be _important_. He’s dead because of _her_, because she opened her _fucking_ mouth, because Caleb said immediately afterwards that her idea was a good one, making her feel all warm and fuzzy where now she feels _sick_, the muscles of her throat convulsing as she chokes away the resist to vomit. She’s been staring at him for a _while_, casting _Mending_ on his nice cloak and folding the strange fabric all neat, all even the way _he _would like it, her fingers gripping her holy symbol so _tightly_—

“There are no more diamonds,” she hears Caduceus say to Fjord, who holds the sword so _tight _in his hands. It’s gleaming, glowing lightly and washing its blue colouration onto the floorboards around him, and Jester lets out a shaky breath, rubbing her face again as she tries not to tremble, tries to hold it together at least a _little _as she sits beside him. Beau and Caleb are talking quickly, talking _urgently,_ all glittering eyes and moving hands and words like _Bright Queen _and _optics _and whatever this means for the _war_, now that they’ve let this man who is—_was_, Jester thinks, and immediately finds herself rejecting it, even as the word starts to take hold in her head—their biggest advocate in Xhorhas, and Jester doesn’t snap, because Caleb’s expression looks a little _wrecked_ even as he holds himself together, the way he did when they lost Yasha. This is also just him coping. Nott is—_ah_, she thinks numbly—Nott is _drinking_, her own shoulders trembling, and she eyes Essik’s body, probably wondering where his _spellbook _is, which Jester _knows_ is in that strange other plane that he snaps it to when he isn’t using it. It’s _Caduceus _continuing to murmur to Fjord that distracts her from how Caleb’s hands, how his rough and blackened fingers, are far too still. “We have to consider that the Kryn would probably not want to be _revived_, Fjord—”

“He _would_.” Jester doesn’t even realizing she wants to speak until she suddenly _is_, and as _sick _as she feels at the sound of her lilting Nicodrani voice rising and falling around the syllables leaving past her parted lips—she hears, _We should bring Essik here, he'll want to know the Scourgers are watching him_, again and again and _again_, over and over, her eyebrows furrowed as she suggested it—the idea that Essik Theylas wouldn’t want to come back is fucking _absurd _to her ears. Caduceus stares at her, his hair looking all pale in the muted light from Caleb’s _Dancing Lights _and the _sword_, and Jester _blinks_, wanting to look _away _but also not quite being able to. “Essik _loves_ being alive like _this_, in _this _body, the way he is _now_—he wouldn’t want to move to another life when he’s like _my age_ in _elf years_.” Her voice get _real _strained, because holy _fuck_, Essik’s face is so fucking _smooth_, hardly wrinkled at _all_. Her expression twists, and she looks at Cad's indulgent but sincere smile—_getting ready to tell me I'm letting my _emotions_ control me_, she thinks, her face bitter because _I _know_ I brought him here, Caduceus, I _know_ I ruined him_—with her jaw clenched. "I have _Speak with Dead _prepared." Her implication is _clear_.

It’s Caleb who breaks the silence. “Jester’s idea is a good one,” he murmurs, and _oh,_ that _hurts_, because he said the same _fucking _thing to her when she suggested bringing the Shadowhand _here_, to survey the scene with his own clever and discerning eyes. She led him right up into an ambush, right up into a _trap_, and from how Caleb’s eyebrows furrow as he hesitantly moves _forward_, moves with his footfalls making her wince and creaking on the floorboards, tearing through the _silence_, he can see how much his faith is costing her, how much his face as he speaks makes her want to curl up a little, makes her want to die. “From _everything _that I about Essik Theylas, he is… not the traditionalist that other members of Leylas Kryn’s council purport themselves as being.” Everyone looks to him, Nott lowering her flask to watch Caleb with worried eyes, and he grimaces, crossing his arms and rubbing them with his hands. He doesn’t itch, just _squeezes_, and _oh_, Beau’s eyes sharpen at _that_. “The man has a… right to his own fate, ja?” There’s still smoke cascading off Caleb's form, off his purple cloak, off his red hair, soot staining his hands and smearing against the black of his burnt fingers, from when he burnt his fellow Scourgers _alive_, burnt them to the fucking _bone_.

“It’s not like we can hurt him _more_,” Beau says, her voice rough as she crosses her arms, muscles shifting as she tenses them, leaning against the wall. Her hair is a mess, falling out past her bun and framing her face, and her blue eyes look _shadowed_, look _dark_, her eyebrows furrowed as she looks for a moment to Essik’s still body before flitting her gaze away. Her face _twists_ into a pained grimace. Her monk vestments are torn, blood streaking and staining them, making the dark blue look almost _brown _where the blood collects, all moist and leaking and _wet_. Her clothes look _wet_, and Jester watches the wound across her stomach for a moment, the wound Caduceus did his best to _heal_. “We… we _fucked up_, we should’ve been more _careful_, but now we gotta… fucking do right by him.” Her voice gets a little small near the end, and she blinks, looking to the ground, more of her hair pulled forward. “He believed in us.”

“Let’s just do it,” Fjord sighs, and he comes close _too_, a hand on Caleb’s shoulder as he passes him, right up until he’s sitting right next to Jester, bending down on his knees and looking to Essik’s corpse. His hair is longer now, the white streaking the black so _elegant_, and Jester returns the sad little smile he offers her, his sword in his hand as his eyes flit back to her for a moment before turning back to Essik. “He would’ve let us cast _Speak with Dead_ with the dead Scourger in his underground prison even though that was absolutely _illegal_ and would’ve gotten him into shit, I think he can take some of his own medicine.” He exhales through his teeth, and his gaze travels from Nott rubbing her neck, mud staining her yellow dress, to Caduceus with his fingers tightly curled around his staff and his eyes searching, to settle on Caleb, who finally makes his way to Essik on the floor and sits _down_, his knees crossed that way he gets when he’s about to cast a complicated ritual with chalk and incense and strange arcane words passing past his pretty lips. Caleb’s hand trembles a little as he reaches out, brushing some of Essik’s bloodied hair off his face, and Fjord’s shoulders slump. “Why the fuck _not_?”

There’s soft footfalls as Nott pushes off the crate she was sitting on, not even _looking _at Caduceus, who nods and traces his thumb over the runes on his staff. Her green skin is bloodied and bruised, skin splotched where those Scourgers sent spells flying after her, electrocuting her and making her echoing scream startled and loud and_ trailing_ in the distance, and she sits where Caleb is, wiping her mouth and setting down her blood-stained crossbow. Her other hand holds her flask with a _tight _grip as she as she pulls out flattened flowers from her pocket, some from the Empire and others more recent, others in blacks and purples native to the Dynasty. She sets her flask down after a moment longer, beginning to weave them into his hair in earnest. Caleb watches her with the _gentlest_ fucking expression, and Nott shrugs weakly. “Good luck, _right?_” Her voice rasps a little.

Beau and Caduceus also begin to walk closer, leaning over the body, and Jester laughs, the sound in her voice all _wet_ and brittle. “Oh my _gosh_, you _guys_,” she says, her lips quirking up a little as Beau stands behind Fjord with her quarterstaff tight in her hands, while Caduceus cocks his head over Caleb, casting a _huge_ shadow down at all of them. “We’re _crowding _him, he’s going to be so _weird _about his personal space when he sees _everyone_.” Her voice is too light, she’s fucking _terrified _of seeing his blue eyes open and _empty_, his voice_ dry_ and brittle where it’s usually so _smooth_, so _bright_, so fucking full of _life_—but _fuck_, this is how it _is_, and she grins at Beau, making a little barb about how _he wanted to be our friend, being a friend means no fucking personal space_, the divine words tearing through her throat as she begins to _cast_, her fingers so tight on her holy symbol that the corners jut against her skin. Pink runes float all around them, gentler than her quick and panicked _Cure Wounds_, and the light is so soft over the angles of his face—

Fjord _flinches_ as Essik’s eyes startle open, letting out a ragged breath as Caleb holds Essik’s head in his lap. “Fuck,” he says, his voice all light and flightly and _uncertain _as the sword nearly falls from his grip in his momentary surprise. Fjord’s terror of the undead is usually a never-ending _delight _for Jester, but not right now, not as guilt twists on Fjord’s expression as he sits back in his previous position. Every breath coming from Essik’s throat sounds pained and forced, like he’s in fucking physical _pain, _like the air hissing past his lips is _agony_, and _oh, _his bright eyes are usually _glittering,_ but now they’re flat, now they’re empty, now they’re fucking _soulless_. His gaze immediately snaps to _Jester_, and—

She swallows, and resists the urge to break back into tears, resists the urge to _apologize_, resists the urge to grab his shoulders and hug him tight, because _oh_, would he _hate_ that—but he wouldn't hate _anything _like this, would he? She remembers the Traveler teaching her this spell, his ethereal hands warm on hers as he showed her the somatic gestures. His eyes glittered at Jester’s wide eyes and her beaming smile, her grinning as she thought about how _useful_ this would all be when the Mighty Nein fuck things up, end up in fucked situations, lacking information, lacking _knowledge. _The Traveler exhaled at how her tail flicked excitedly behind her. _Remember the limits, Jester_, His voice was kind, but not indulgent—he isn’t ever indulgent with her, teaching her the _coolest_ magic and trusting in her ability to carry out his ideals, to balance out all the order with a healthy—_cathartic_, Jester said, enunciating the word carefully, making him smirk—dose of chaos, until the day everyone considered the Traveler the most _amazing _deity around.

_I need you, _she thinks, her heart aching as she listens in the emptiness for her friend, before looking back to Essik, listening to Beau murmur something under her breath to Caduceus. “Do you _want_ to come back to life in _this _body, _Essik_?” Her voice is lilting on his name, saying it like _Ess-ik_ as she tries not to curl into herself with guilt. It’s only the feeling of those _familiar _fingers trailing over her shoulder, the fingers only she can see, that keeps her from breaking, because _fuck_, they’ve lost so _much_, so quickly. Looking at him, all she can imagine is everyone they’ve lost along the way. _Molly_, who she didn’t even _see_ die, she was the cleric who was supposed to _protect_ the clever and slippery bastard. _Caduceus_, down in the well with Nott’s careless explosive arrow that sent his corpse hurtling. _Yasha_, who _grinned_ at her with a savage smirk as she raised her blade, cutting through the air, through her mirror image, nearly through _her_ as Jester scrambled to leave through the exit. _Fuck_, this shouldn’t be so _affecting, _it’s not like they were _friends_—

“_Yes_,” Essik grits out past his teeth, the sound hollow and broken filtering through the lax muscles of his throat. He’s _trembling_ slightly, and Jester remembers his smooth smile as Caleb called him their friend, Jester wrinkling her nose as she smashed popcorn into her mouth and grimaced at their touching hands. _Go awayyyy_, she thought then, as they made promises and assurances to each other, Caleb’s eyes glittering at the way Essik’s gaze lowered to his lips, to the shape of his sharp jaw. They seemed so at _ease_ with each other, words dancing in their different accents as they discussed arcane theories and dunamantic research, Essik smirking smugly at her when Jester couldn’t comprehend his fancy little book. In another world. It was like they were in another _world…_

Oh _fuck_, Caleb is staring at her _now_, so Jester looks evenly back to the corpse, a plan already formulating in her head because of the very _real _lack of diamonds, and lack of money, and lack of _time_ as they’re all fucking dealing with. Her spell slots are _tapped_, and she can hardly hear herself ask Essik if he _can_ be revived given that he’s consecuted, barely hears the expected _yes_ and ensuing explanation that crackles past his dry throat about the mechanics of it all. His soul doesn’t _immediately _retreat into the nearest beacon, there’s some _time_ before then, and though the rest of the Mighty Nein fall into abrupt conversation with each other as they figure out where the fuck they could make some quick cash—_the Bright Queen_, Caduceus says, jaw tense, _she’s the authority on all this_, and Beau retorts that _she’ll tell Essik to suck it up, Cad_—Caleb is looking _right _at her, his eyes even.

Jester swallows at his careful expression and winces, letting go of the spell. “This is all becoming a mess, huh?” Her voice is low, and she gazes for a moment at the dry and wilted flowers braided into his silver hair. _Good luck_, she thinks faintly, giving Nott, who takes another swig from her large flask, a small smile before looking back to Caleb, her fingers _tight_ as she grips on the cloth of Essik’s cloak. It’s cool against her already cold fingers. “I think I have a _plan_, I have _Raise Dead_ prepared, you know?” At _that_, Caduceus’ gaze _snaps _to her, and Jester looks up at him. “I can bring him _back_, Caduceus.” She tries to make her voice sound _sure_, sound _confident_, but there’s an uncertain lilt that breaks through anyway, one that makes her wince and square her shoulders. “The Traveler will help me.” Of _this _she is _absolutely _sure.

“_Without _diamonds,” Caduceus says, tilting his head as his words come out a deep rumble past his throat. He exhales through his teeth, and Jester can _see_ how stressed he is despite that languid and placating smile, despite how he holds his shoulders in that relaxed position as he tries to keep his tone even, unbothered by the tension of the moment. Jester admires it, she’s so good at it herself—she just can’t quite bring herself to do it right _now_. Her heart seems to _dance_ as she’s already gripping her holy symbol, preparing to make her plea to the Traveler, who taught her all her favourite spells. “_Jester_.” Cad shakes his head, sounding almost fucking _disappointed_, like he’s her _father_—not like she’d _know_, she thinks, face twisting with frustration at how Fjord’s expression begins to mirror Cad’s—or something, it mirrors _something_. “It’s _cruel _to bring up hope where there isn’t any.”

“_Caduceus_,” Caleb says as Beau snaps, “_Cad,_” their voices beginning to intermingle as Jester ignores them _all_, her impatience and fear winning out. She closes her eyes, divine words ripping out past her throat in a hum as she lowers her head. Her hair tumbles past her shoulders as she takes shaky breathes. The sounds of the group around her begin to numb out, numb _away, _and Jester can _tell _that the pink glyphs all around her are _weak_, weaker than they _should _be, she lacks _so _many of the components that she needs for this spell, is positively fucking _drained_ of magic. She has her faith, though, and she _remembers_ the Traveler teaching something new to her, his elegant hands making pretty gestures in the air that she copied, biting the inside of her cheek. _Please_, she thinks, her heart thudding, her face a little flushed from how much has fucking _happened _today, _please, please, please_—

The Traveler’s voice is a gentle whisper in her ear. _But we don’t have what we need_. There is the depth in how he speaks, the words echoing and breaking out in her ear as ethereal hands _squeeze_ her shoulder, and he sounds so _sad_, so _small_, where usually he’s so _smug_, and—

_Not good enough_, Jester thinks, eyes filled with tears. She isn’t even entirely sure if she’s saying it to _herself_ like she _usually _is, or saying it to _him_, wondering why the fuck in all his infinite glory he can’t perform this type of miracle when she fucking _needs_ him. _I need your divine intervention, Traveler_. Her head is still lowered, her mouth still going through the motions as the divine symbols flicker around her so _weakly. _She flutters her eyes shut, shut against the heat of the pink, hoping that perhaps in the darkness of the inside of her eyelids something extraordinary could happen here, something that would make _everyone _realize how powerful the Traveler is. Her holy symbol feels _hot _in her hands, the sharp angles of it digging into the flesh of her palm. _I need you_, she thinks, her voice _so _fucking desperate, _I need you so fucking much, please—_

* * *

_ _

_Art by [@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr._

* * *

Jester feels wind against her face, her hair pushed back, and she lets out a _ragged_ sob as all the pink glyphs startle into nothingness, winking out one after the other where they were previously glittering. The group looks at her with _alarm_, watching as she stumbles to her feet, barking out a false laugh and telling them she’s going _outside for a moment, okay?_ Beau nearly fucking follows after her, and Jester thinks she might’ve almost snarled at her to _leave me alone_ as she bunches her dress in her freckled blue—_wretched_, she thinks numbly, _failing_—hands. Her footfalls are loud and uneven as she walks out the room that holds the corpse, walks out the room with her sin, walks out the room with her _failure_, because holy fucking _shit_, how could he just fucking _leave_ her like that? Her tears are all over her cheeks, and the voice in her head is _silent_ as she puts her hands over her face, trying to muffle the choked sound of her sobs. Her back is braced against the wooden wall, and the panelling _scrapes_ between her bare shoulder blades from where the dress doesn’t cover her as she’s sinking down, down, _down _to the floor, down until she’s sitting on her ass and looking hollowly outside the window to the city outside.

They’re on the outskirts of Rosohna, and there aren’t many _people _out here, out in the streets, but she keeps watch regardless, feels the need to do _something _as she hears the lull of the conversation inside, hears them talking urgently about what to do next, and what to do about _Jester_. She’s spent so much _time _in her childhood listening in on those fucking meetings, listening with her ear pressed to the door as Marion asked Blude, after Jester snuck into another performance, what to _do about her Blude, she’s becoming _less _obedient, less_ mature_ as she grows up, what will she make of this world? What will it make of her?_ Nott is hissing at them all to lay the fuck off, to stop bothering her, and _Caleb_—Caleb is agreeing. Jester doesn’t _want_ to hear this shit, but Caleb is _agreeing_, and she could just _imagine _how he furrows eyebrows as he says softly that she seems _distraught_, and needs some time with the _Traveler_, which _kind of _makes her bark out a laugh, short and muffled in her hands—he’s usually so _right_, but he’s wrong on _this_. Jester doesn’t need time with the Traveler, she needs to keep _watch_, to not fucking fail at this _too_, and so she does, eyes blank as she listens to the hum of the city, listens to the people in it.

She tries to forget the feeling of Essik’s cloak cold between her fingers as she mended it.


	2. Chapter 2

Essik Theylas is _alive_, and Jester numbly stares at his languid fingers absentmindedly pick out the flowers in his hair, Nott rolling her eyes at him as he does. There was a long silence after she left, a long silence where they let her be by herself, trying to shrug off the stench of her own pathetic _failure_, and Jester didn’t know _what_ they were doing in here, found herself not _caring _about what they were doing in here. The lull of the conversation rose and fell, but Jester was _finally _able to block it all out, head leaning back against the wall as her hair cushioned away the rough feeling of the uneven wooden panelling against her scalp. All she could think of the Traveler’s hands on her shoulders, his lips quirked up into an excited smirk as he told her all about the new _power_ she could access with her current level of magic, telling her that if she tried really, _really _hard, and was very, _very _lucky, he could perform miracles for her, intervene in the midst of battle or the minutiae of daily life. _Which one is it?_ she was thinking with dull eyes as she forced herself up, hearing Beau _shout _excitedly, her words dragging into each other and incomprehensible in Jester’s headspace. _Did I not try enough or was I not lucky enough? What about me is lacking?_ It was clear outside, so she forced herself back in, fingers on the wood even colder than her skin, _pushing_ at it, wincing at the creak—

Essik _smirks _at her, and she stares with wide eyes as he runs a hand over the creases in the folds of his clothes, over where she already tried not to clean him up. _Not good enough_, she thinks again, but her eyes are too wide and her gut seizes with too much shock to properly experience that _shitty _bitterness that flits through her ribs, all the way right to her heart. 

“_Obviously _the Bright Queen isn’t to _know_ about this,” he says, eyes flitting over every member of the Mighty Nein before finally returning to Jester. _Fuck_, the way her eyes are bugged out right now must be so _obvious_, so _embarrassing_, because Essik nods to Caleb, who looks _pale_, looks _tired_, but still returns Essik’s little smile. Their gazes hold for a moment—_oh_, she thinks miserably—and Essik shakes his head, seeming so fucking _impressed_. “Did you tell her what you did, Herr Widogast?”

The title of respect makes Caleb’s little half-smile widen, but it _flits_ off his face as he turns to Jester, looking at her with a concerned furrow to his eyebrows. _I did that_, Jester thinks, as he clears his voice in that way he does when he’s getting ready to talk. It’s a little rough, strained in that way it gets when he’s been casting for a _while_—Jester _blinks_, remembering how empty her chest felt as she watched the sky turn a different colour, how long was she _gone?_—and his gaze is on her, giving Jester a respectful _nod_. “I’ve been thinking about Jester’s resurrection of Caduceus since the incident in Asarius,” he murmurs, his voice lilting and tired. “It was… extraordinary”—and _oh_, the _credit _and the _awe_ in his voice snaps her a little out of her haze, her face darkening because he’s always so fucking _earnest_ and _decent _to her despite her failures—“and I was… _inspired _by the use of diamonds to restore life to a dead form. My research indicated that diamonds are extremely conducive towards necrotic types of magic, and though my transmuter’s stone doesn’t have that _exact_ type of magical proficiency…” His voice trails off, and Jester feels so fucking _dumb_.

“Transmutation and necromancy are interrelated disciplines of magic,” Essik finishes briskly, eyes dark as he watches Caleb with a smile playing on his lips. He looks so fucking _bright_, already in that small little float that makes him _look _taller, and the flowers are nearly out of his hair, his arm lowering to disappear back into the depthless blackness. "You were able to channel the concentration of transmutative magic in that _rock _you fitz with, with the right arcane glyphs redirecting the magic from its original purpose in your school of magic into a more… _clerical _direction." He looks to Caleb's empty hands for a moment, and Jester realizes with a start that Caleb is gripping _sand_, all tight in his hands. His knuckles are whitened a little, and Jester widens her eyes fractionally, for the first time feeling _present _in all this. "I'm impressed, Caleb." His voice is soft. "And from my own studies, I believe you'll be able to achieve the same reservoir of transmutative magic in _another _rock, there's hardly anything about it that was _priceless_." There's a pause, and then he shifts, hand pulling out from his black robes to pass to Caleb a perfectly circular black marble, as depthless as his own robes. "Accept this in my thanks."

"That a _candy_?" Nott asks, her large ears flapping, braids nearly _slapping _in her excitement. Her words _rasp_, and Jester realizes her nails are digging into her palms, she didn't even _notice_ the flashes of pain she was feeling until right _then_, watching Caleb's own hand curl around Essik's gift. "Because I _also _helped, you know, _murder _those Scourgers in your honour." She gives him a hopeful look, a hand reaching out to anxiously tug her own braid.

"After you led me here to my _death_," Essik dryly retorts, his hand on Caleb's for a second too long, his expression too knowing for it all to be _unintentional_. Jester _freezes_ at the doorway at his comment, at his touch, jaw clenching as she tries to hide her own misery. Not only did she _bring _him here, her _god_, the fucking _Traveler_, couldn't manage to do without diamonds what Caleb's _rock_ did, scourged up in the muck and cleaned by a dirty rag all way back in _Berleben_, Jester painting a half-smile on it as he tried to keep it away. She's pretty fucking _sure _her paint won't work on this little spherical rock, her face pale as Essik's smile widens. "It's dumas, a mineral natively mined to exterior of Asarius, I think you will find it quite complimentary to your particular brand of arcane practices." He sounds _smug_ as Caleb raises it in his hand, examining it with that impressed look in his eyes, and Jester _should_ be glad that Essik is alright, Essik is safe, Essik is _alive_, and she _is_, just—there is something that _trembles _inside her as they talk. Their jargon is unfamiliar and different and _remote_, making the holy symbol in her hand seem so _backwards_, seem so _stupid_. Praying to a diety who's only there half the time, whose divine interventions don't fucking _work_— "Well," Essik says, lightly, interrupting her thoughts. "I'll make my own way back, then." His smile turns a tad bit insincere, just a little dark, as he begins to walk out the door.

Jester _winces_ as she feels his shoulder brush hers as he begins to leave through the door. "Essik," she hears herself mumbling, her voice soft and demure and _so _not like her. Her chest hurts a little, this little phantom pain that makes her want to raise her fingers and press _in_—fucking _shit_, this hasn't happened since she was a _kid_, she feels panic well up in her throat at the thought of having to _deal _with this shit _again_, after all this _time _and the _doctors_—and he's _looking _at her, and she doesn't quite know what to say, how to _apologize_, how to say she was the fucking idiot who _suggested_ this and she was the fucking idiot who _failed_ and she was the fucking idiot who thought that her fucking god could be even a little better than Caleb's rock found amongst shit and dirt. It was _stupid_ of her. Who was she to think she had anything _close _to Caleb's Midas touch, making broken things something _useful_, something _worthwhile_? Her mouth is open, but the words aren't coming _out_, and Jester blinks, blinks _again_, as Essik disinterestedly nods at her and exits the room, eyes as indulgent as they had been when Jester couldn't manage to make out what his spellbook was _saying_, her face flushing as she made up bullshit on the fly.

"Make your way _home_, Den Nein," he calls over his shoulder, and there's _something _that flickers over his face as he rolls back his shoulders. Just the slightest hint of any kind of _injury_, any kind of _bother_, that his even and beautiful face obscures. _Oh, god_, Jester thinks dully, as the door slams shut behind him by itself, Cad touching Beau's arm and lightly healing one of her cuts as they stand in the reckoning silence. Essik doesn't have _footfalls_, but she can hear the drag of his cloak against the wooden panelling, can hear doors opening and shut in that even pattern, the sounds becoming more and more _remote _as he makes his way out of the multiple levels of the safehouse. _Finally_, there is blissful _silence, _and Jester forces a dizzying smile onto her face, turning to look at _anyone_ who isn't Caleb, isn't an accomplished and talented arcanist where she and her god are _lacking_—

"Hey," Beau says, voice low as she walks over to Jester, an arm reaching out to gently touch her shoulder. Her blue eyes are watching Jester _so _carefully, matching _Caleb's _expression as he swivels that smooth dark marble between his fingers—_perfect_, Jester thinks, her fingers clenching into a fist because it isn’t _fair_ how _lost _she feels. Why the fuck can’t she _control _herself? Why is the smile on her face so _false_? She should be so fucking _happy _that her failure won’t cost them. And she _is _happy, watch how her lips stretch—and as they gaze at her, the rest of the Mighty Nein begin to pack up their things. “You were out there for so _long, _Jes.” Her nickname is affectionate, and Jester spies Caleb’s blackened fingers curling over the marble and slipping it into one of the pockets of his nicely trimmed Xhorhassian coat. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

“Thank you, _Beau_,” Jester chirps, giving her a bright smile as she reaches out and pulls a loose strand of her own hair behind her ear. _Beau’s_ hair is a ratted mess, and Jester is so thoroughly _drained_ that she can’t even offer a basic _Cure Wounds _spell to help deal with some of the cuts, some of the bruising, some of the ache that’s not present at all in how Beau carries herself with her coat torn at its side. _That_ is something she _can _fix, some way that she _can _be useful right now, so she closes her eyes for a moment as she casts, softly breathing out divine words as glyphs glow around the place where her hand touches the fabric. The Traveler taught her this _too_, cleaning out a rip when she was stomping around in _Zadash_, her coat tearing as it caught onto a hook at the market stall selling weaponry. His touch is always so _gentle_. Jester’s is more enthusiastic, more _forceful_, her grip a little tighter—she internally _winces_ now, thinking of how _obvious _her need to prove herself must be to others—and she tries not to think about that as she pulls away, having fixed the tear. “That’s all I can do for _now_, okay?” Her face must look so _false_, because Beau’s expression makes her want to shrivel. “_Sorry_, Beau.”

“… It’s okay,” Beau murmurs, her brown skin looking so _warm_ despite the muted and sickly light. Her hair is falling out from her bun around her face, the darkness framing it so well, and Jester catches how her piercings glint as she moves. “You realize it’s okay, right?” Her sharp gaze watches Jester’s minute movements, and her eyes flit to Caleb for a moment, who’s holding _Nott_. He's tucked her into his chest, Nott pressing her cheek against his shirt and talking quite _loudly _about how she _would’ve stolen the hot boy’s spellbook for you, Cayleb, but it was in a strange other dimension and everything_. Her dress is all rumpled, all torn, her braids a mess, and Caleb’s running his blackened fingers through them, trying to fix her up as he listens to her ranting, watches her tightly grip her flask and her crossbow. Fjord is dematerializing his cool new _sword_ as Caduceus brings up the Wildmother—_perfect Melora,_ Jester thinks, and she is _shocked_ by how bitter she feels, _shocked _by how this stinging failure has broken her ability to repress this… wretchedness, this _emptiness_ that exists like a sea inside of her. “_Jester_,” Beau whispers, sounding mildly surprised, almost mildly _frightened_. Jester is frightened _too_, frightened of whatever Beau sees on her _face_. “_Trust _me, you tried something and it failed, and it’s fucking _okay._ Everyone knows you did your best, dude.”

Jester smiles indulgently at her, reaching out and touching one of her monk vestments. It’s _also _torn, and she watches the pink of the _Mending _cantrip glitter on Beau’s skin for a moment before tearing her eyes _away_, looking to _something_, looking to _anything_, and _oh_, Caleb is moving slowly, moving towards the door with a hand bracing Nott against him. Nott is protectively curling her arms around him in turn. This all of course means he’s moving closer to _her_, and she shoots them both a smile that is most _certainly _not alarmed as she turns back to Beau, watching her so _cleverly_. Beau told Jester on the Squalleater that she loved her, but fucking _honestly? _After today’s desperate and pathetic display, being an emotional and guilt-ridden mess and not being able to _stop_, not being able to bring Essik _back _despite how she _begged _the Traveler for aid—oh _gods_. All she can think about is the praise she’s heaped onto herself, that make her ears perk up whenever someone _else _repeats it. How can _anyone _take her seriously as a cleric when the only thing that’s working out for her today is a fucking _cantrip_? “I _know_, Beau.” Her smile widens.

“Know _what?_” Nott says groggily. She _glares_ at the flowers on the uneven wooden panelling, where Essik’s dead body—_corpse_, Jester thinks bitterly, _that’s the word I learned for it_—had lain, and looks up to Caleb, reaching up to put a hand on his cheek. The dark green is startling against the translucence of his pale, delicate skin—like Jester’s freckled blue, a thought that makes her eyes flit away—and she reaches up, giving him a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “_Caleb_, you know I _absolutely _support _all _your choices, but maybe don’t date that Mister Shadowhand hot boy?” Caleb’s nose wrinkles at that, a small laugh breaking past his lips, and Nott grins so wide all her sharp teeth are exposed, widening still as Caleb leans his head down, hair falling over his face as he returns the kiss to Nott’s forehead. “He doesn’t appreciate the _flowers_, you know how _hard_ it is to weave them into hair when you’re drunk as shit?” She looks down to her flask for a moment, and her shoulders slump a little, the wide smile on her face dropping a little. “Real _fucking _hard.”

“Oh _no_, Nott.” Jester exhales, running a hand through her own hair as she searches through her bag cinched at her side, for something that could help Nott’s drunkenness, make her eyes less bleary as she holds Caleb tightly. “Well, you _know_, of _course_ Essik Theylas acts so _important _right after Cayleb brings him back to life, right?” She lets out a light little laugh she doesn’t mean, not finding a _single _thing that could _possibly _aid her, only old medicine kits and pastries. _Fuck_, no _wonder_ divine interventions don’t fucking work _out _for her, she’s not a _great _cleric, and the fact that this hits her _now_ after she’s been ignoring it for so _long_, not able to get any more followers for the Traveler… they both let each other down, huh? Jester _knows_ her expression breaks for just a half-second, she feels it in how Caleb’s eyes narrow and Beau’s jaw tenses, feels it in how her own face relaxes too much. She forces it back up into its usual tension, her smile only slightly more brittle than it was _before_. She looks to Caleb, watches his expression. “Just _carry _her, okay?”

“… Okay,” Caleb says softly. The enunciation of each syllable that passes through his lips is lighter and more careful than she expected, and his gaze on Jester is so _intent, _eyes tracing over the angles of her face as he raises a hand to gently push Nott’s face further into the soft cloth of his coat. His own pale face looks _nice_, all framed by his pretty red hair and tied back so his sharp jawline isn’t hidden. Caleb’s eyebrows are furrowed as he watches the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, the bells on her dress clinking a little as she lets go of her holy symbol and bunches her hands in the rich blue fabric. “And for the _record_”—Beau rolls her _eyes_ at this even as she smirks, she kept saying it last night and Caleb seems to have picked this phrase off her—“I consider what I did for Essik a _group effort_. Everyone made little speeches, and _Jester_, I only thought to channel my magic into necromancy because of your _healing_. You attempted to replace the diamonds with an influx of divine magic, and I used my reserve of transmutative potential.” He waits until Jester looks back to him to give her a small little smile. “It was the same idea, and it was very brilliant.” His voice is low, practically _ringing _with earnestness.

“Yeah,” Beau says, latching onto where Caleb has picked up their conversation. Her eyes dart to Caleb for a moment, and they exchange a look that makes Caleb exhale through his teeth, watching as Fjord opens the door and Caduceus waits for them to start exiting out through the room. They seem engrossed in their small conversation, and Beau watches Caduceus for a moment longer before shaking her head, her hair loosening and falling around her face even _more _as she crosses her arms. “Listen, man, Cad doesn’t know how he _sounds_ sometimes, we all know that you just wanted to save Essik's life. And it was really good of you to try, you know?” Jester’s smile recedes for a moment at how _placating_ Beau sounds, because how _good _was it that she fucking _failed_? Her hands are tightly clenched, her shoulders tense as she struggles to keep up her smile, and _gods_, why do they keep _talking _about that pathetic affair? She just wants to move forward, move away from how her chest _hurts_, and they keep _talking _about this. “You know that?”

Jester gives them both a stiff smile. Nott is drowsing in Caleb’s arms, her face becoming slack as her breathing evens _out_, and Jester is glad there aren’t a _third _set of prying eyes on this conversation, on the little shifts on her face. She just airily waves her hand in the air, both of their gazes following her fingers as her long sleeve flutters in the air for a moment, Caleb’s eyes sliding down her skin as he stares at the bruises there. _That_ makes her flush a little, and he averts his gaze as Jester bites her lower lip, trying to think of a way to weasel _out _of this. “It _wasn’t_ the same idea, Cayleb,” she whispers, her hair all around her face and falling on her shoulders. It’s gotten so _unruly_ since the fight. It must be _such _a mess. _Caleb’s_ hair is nicer, tied back, and Jester _blinks_, thinking that he must consider her such a goddamn _child_. The word tearing through her head is like a slap to her face, and she lets out a breathless little laugh. “_Your _idea was _smart_.” Her implication is of course obvious.

“_Jester_—” Beau begins to protest, head tilting as Jester crosses her arms, shrinking into herself. Her fingers are tightened into fists, but where Beau looks _insistent_, ready to _talk _this out and _assure _her, make _sure _Jester hears the praise she wants to give out, Caleb is silent, head tilted as he watches her little movements. Their eyes meet for a half-second, and _usually _Caleb’s eyes flit away first, Jester _knows _he hates eye contact, prefers to have his gaze fixated on people’s cheeks, people’s noses—but his gaze is steady, even as he clenches his jaw like he has to _force_ himself to do it. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks _so _worried for her,

Caleb _narrows_ his eyes just a _leetel_ as Jester looks away, but she _grins_ at Fjord as he wrinkles his nose at all of them. He stands taller now, taller with his new sword and new cape and new confidence, eyes dark and glittering and _handsome_—or maybe it’s just Jester who _feels_ shorter, _feels _smaller, feels _childish _in her green cape that imitates the Traveler, when all her fucking _praying_, all her shitty little _pamphlets_—_they’re the best_, she said happily to Nott as she tried to convince her to sneak them into people’s pockets, and the funny thing is that she _genuinely _thought so, his faith in her made her think so—but she couldn’t do what _Caleb_ did, with that rock he found in a ditch. He made it something amazing, made it beautiful, and Jester took all the Traveler’s attention, all his magic, everything they both had to offer—and _failed_. “Come _on_, guys,” Fjord calls out, and _fuck_, he even _sounds_ more _together_, more _okay_, more _alright_. His shoulders are braced in a confident way, and his real voice doesn’t sound so _hesitant_ anymore.

“Come _on_, guys,” Jester chirps, imitating Fjord’s accent as she begins to walk away from the three of them, out past the door Fjord holds open. Fjord’s eyes drag on her a little with concern _too_, but he seems mostly _tired_, his pretty hair all disheveled and his eyes blinking, blood staining his leather armor as he gestures for her to continue forward. Jester playfully cursties, and he watches before nodding his head with a smile, the scar on his upper one catching her attention as she searches for _anything_ to distract from how it _hurts_, everything _hurts_ and she’s so goddamn _self-centered_, what _right _does she have to feel this _hurt_? Jester just _giggles_, turning around to look at everyone over her shoulder, to _wave_, to gesture to _follow_, and she watches them all begin to fall into line, fall into their protective positions despite the absence of an enemy combatant. Caduceus _stares_ at her, and Jester avoids his gaze.

They’re _louder_ than Essik as they stomp out through the different hallways, walking down the stairs and finally out onto the _street_ as day breaks, because of course they are. Jester doesn’t even have enough magic in reserve for _Pass Without a Trace_, because of _course_ she doesn’t. The chaos is to be expected, as are the people watching them—they’re the Mighty Nein, after all.

She is Jester Lavorre, smiling and joking and poking Nott’s sleeping face and _among them_, and she tries not to curl into herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH!!! CHAPTER 3. Thank you to everyone who has followed this story so far <3 The art in this chapter is by the talented and wonderful [@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and her work is as gorgeous and beautiful as ever.

When Caleb pulls her aside as they enter the Xhorhouse, Jester _tenses_ her shoulders, her smile already widening in preparation to give assurances, to tell him that _everything’s alright, really, Cayleb_—but he raises a hand almost _defensively _as she says those familiar words. A hand rests against the collar of his shirt, rubbing the side of his neck. There’s the _faintest _pink flush on his face, and his blue eyes affix to a region of her cheek close to her nose as his jaw shifts, as he makes the soft sound of clearing his throat. “Ah, Jester,” he says, and he sounds so _awkward_, so _uncertain_, that her smile actually turns genuine, actually turns _fond_, her forehead creasing as he clears his throat again. “I have something _really cool_”—he says _really cool _in the way that _she _would say it, his voice all high and excited and lilting, and Jester actually exhales into a small laugh because _really_, the others are just _mean_, his accents aren’t bad at _all_—“that I wish to show you.”

Jester wiggles her eyebrows a little, leaning forward conspiratorially, because _this_? Joking and teasing with Caleb, who gives her long looks with his pale blue eyes that leave her face darkened and her words even _more_ trailing than they usually are? Who outside of Nott is the most _willing _to engage with her shenanigans, his spellbook out immediately as they used his fancy dunamancy spell—_dunamagic I’m too dumb to learn, _she thinks, her sharp thoughts cutting through the memory, hurting it, ruining it—to force Fjord’s sword to stick to the floor. Her impish grin was probably _huge_ then, she _knows_ her tail was flicking around behind her excitedly, but Caleb had held his composure admirably well, his accented voice _so _serious as he suggested that this was a trial of Melora’s, one every paladin of hers was subjected to. Between Jester’s enthusiasm and Caleb’s even face, her favourite wizard's lips quirking up only _faintly _as Fjord swore and pulled at the sword, Fjord fell for their ruse, the two of them admiring the way his arms tensed as he clenched his hands into fists around the hilt. They got him to waste away half an _hour_. It was _so _funny when Fjord realized, Caleb actually laughing as Jester gasped for breath, Fjord saying he expected this of _Jester, but you, Caleb?_ Caleb just shrugged, and Jester intertwined their arms.

The memory makes her _giggle_, and this sound is more earnest than nearly anything else she’s said since that _awful _fight with the Vollstreckers. Caleb watches her for a moment before his _own _lips quirk up, his shoulders squaring as he stands up straighter, seeming more _certain _of whatever he wishes to show her. Jester won’t deny that she’s _curious_. There’s that _glittering _in his eyes that only comes from _magic_, this open _delight _on his face as his blackened fingers tremble a little in his anticipation. He sees her watching them and his hands _still_, and _oh_, that hurts—she doesn’t _mean_ to draw attention, and she doesn’t _mean _for him to silence all his nonverbal expressions, all the ways that he’s _human._ She’s pretty sure that’s one more thing Trent Ikithon did to him that the fancy archmage should _die _for. It would only make him feel _more_ like shit if Jester pulled on that thread, and _honestly_, Jester doesn’t want her _own _threads pulled at right now, she’s pretty sure if he did that she would fall apart, and _that can’t happen_. So, she just reaches out and pokes his shoulder, grinning a little as his eyes follow the movement of her freckled hand. “Are you gonna show me your _dick_?”

Caleb _blinks_ at her, the arcane lanterns in the hall making his expression look all pretty and _mysterious_, thick shadow hiding him along the angles of his face, before he _smirks_, and _hmm_, that’s a _sight_—he looks so much _younger_. His hair is still nice, still frames his face well, but up close, now that it’s just the two of them, she feels her eyes almost _unconsciously _trace over his neck, where she sees a little soot streaking. The purple of his coat looks so _rich _in this light, the layered browns underneath seeming so soft and dark as he raises a hand, running it through the fiery red of his hair, glowing in the orange hue washing over him. Oh _fuck_, Jester’s face _flushes_ a little at his tender fucking expression, and she doesn’t quite recall the details of the hallway, the intricacies of the designs on the walls as Caleb tilts back his head and _laughs_, the sound soft and muted in consideration of the others having shuffled off to sleep. “Will you come to my _room_, Jester?” He shakes his head and grins wider as she wiggles her eyebrows once more. “I have a _surprise_. Not the kind you’re probably _hoping_ for, but—”

“What if the night goes _really _well, though?” Jester’s tail flicks behind her as Caleb actually _winks_ at her, his lips pulling up wider as he turns, beginning to walk down to Nott’s alchemical laboratory, the only way to his secluded room. Her eyes trace over his back, lingering where she can see his shoulder blades against his layers as she follows, her footsteps lilting and uneven and _excited_ where Caleb’s are patterned and reserved. Jester deeply suspects that _together_, they make a beautiful symphony, him providing a steady beat for her chaotic movement, and she’s already imagining adding Caleb to the band she’s going to make with Yasha—_oh, Yasha_, she thinks, her heart seeming to seize as she imagines those murderous eyes—and Nott. A funny name, like _Caleb and the Orphanmakers_. She doesn’t _think _he can play an instrument, but he’s so _smart_, it would be _easy _for a man who learned dunamancy so _easily_, like it was second _nature_…

“What _ever_ could you be thinking, Madame Lavorre?” He turns and gives her a coy smile as he opens his door. It _creaks,_ splintering through the careful silence, and Caleb _winces_ a little at the sound, making Jester _giggle_ as she looks with distracted interest to all of Nott’s strange little tubes, all of them reflecting the muted light like the twinkling stars of Rosohna’s perpetually dark sky. Jester thinks about how she _really _wants to ask Nott if she could _concoct _something for her _hair_, something that will make it grow _longer_, thick enough that Jester’s braid doesn’t feel so _limp_, and then grins at Caleb, racing into the room through the door. He lets out a soft laugh as Jester _bounces _onto the mattress, languidly pacing to make his way and sit beside her. “I’m worried I might’ve just raised your _expectations_, Liebling.” Jester _flushes_ hard at that, eyes wide as he mirrors her position, crossing his legs and pulling out his spellbook. “Don’t be _too _excited.”

Jester allows her eyes to drag over his messy bookshelf, full of _books_ in various different languages—she can spot _Common_, and _Zemnian_, from when she would draw dicks in Caleb’s two books, scrunching her nose and trying to understand the foreign language that used the same _letter_ structure as Common before giving up, and other languages she _absolutely_ does not recognize—and other components, the nice _paper_ he needs for transcribing stacked up near the bottom shelf. His desk is similarly disorganized, full of opened books and messy theories scribed onto loose paper, and Jester can just _imagine _him here, _imagine _his head lowered as he works obsessively, fiddling with his lucky rock, a half-smile on his lips, trying to make it work for what he needed it to, trying to make it more _effective_—and thinking about it _hurts_. Thinking about it makes the flush on her face less from attraction and more from _painful _embarrassment, so she flits her eyes _back_, watching his angled face in the lanterned light. “Of _course _I’m excited,” she whispers, a sad little smile playing on her lips. “You’re _brilliant_.”

His mouth _twists_, and he’s so _ready _to say that _you are too, Jester_—her smile freezes in place, because she doesn’t want this indulgence, doesn’t want to be tagged along in how _amazing _he was for them all today, tagged onto how _well _he is doing and Beau is doing and Fjord is doing when she’s such a damn _mess—_but he _doesn’t_, shoulders slumping a little as he thumbs through his spellbook. “That is… very kind of you to say,” he murmurs, flushing lightly, and Jester mouths a quick _anytime_ as his lips widen into a pleased smile, eyes bright on his book. _Fuck_, he looks so _happy_, Jester wonders how happy _she _looks when she’s casting—her last real use of actual _magic_ that wasn’t just a damn cantrip or the fizzled out _Raise Dead_ spell, and her cheeks were steaked with _tears_ as they all bickered, as Caduceus looked at her with so much _judgement_. “_Arcane_ magic, as you know”—_I don’t know_, Jester thinks numbly, _I don’t know anything_—“is different from _divine _magic, like yours, or Caduceus'.” His eyes _glitter_ as he looks to her so _fondly_. “I’m able to recover some of my magic each _day_, and I’ve recovered enough that I can cast a spell that will put us into a _dream_.”

A _dream?_ Jester’s eyes widen, her mouth opening in delighted surprise, and she feels her knees _trembling _slightly in anticipation as Caleb hesitantly reaches out for her hand. She _grabs _it, intertwining his blackened fingers with her freckled blue ones—and _oh_, that’s a _sight_, she _teasingly _runs her finger in a small circle over his skin as he pulls out several things from his pockets, pulls out a small little _pouch _and a little jar of _black_, and a _quill_—which makes him _still_ for a moment before smiling at her flirtatious and overt _wink_. “Spirit me _awayyyyy_, Cayleb,” she says, her jaw shifting as she figures out what to _do _with all the excitement her body doesn’t know how to express. She knows she’s _wiggling_ her shoulders a little, and giggles as Caleb _laughs, _popping open the cork to the jar which Jester realizes as he sets to the side and dips the quill into is _ink_. “I wanna show you _all _my dreams.” Oh man, oh man, _oh man_—she can just _picture_ all the possibilities, _picture _them riding on _unicorns_—

“I want to see _all_ your dreams,” he promises, and _ohhhh, _he’s _smirking—_he’s making a joke, suggesting something kind of _sexual_, and even though Jester _knows_ this isn’t that kind of night, and neither of them are particularly in _that_ kind of mood, because everything _hurts_ and her chest is _still _kind of tight and someone _died_, the _glittering _in his pale blue eyes, reflecting the light, the _curve_ of his pink lips… Jester feels _entranced_ as he raises that quill in the air, arcane words starting to rip past his throat as _roaring _arcane glyphs begin to circle around them. They flicker in reds and oranges and yellows, blinking out and coming back even _stronger_, even _more _intense, and their glows are _brighter_ than the lanterns, _completely _lighting up Caleb’s face as he slowly lowers down the quill and reaches for the small pouch instead. His hand is _tight _on her, the curve of his fingers almost _possessive _in the best, most _reverent _kind of way, and Jester in that half-second allows herself to _feel _it,_ feel _revered_, as Caleb _pours the sand—sand from the _transmuter's stone_, she realizes with wide eyes—onto his _book_ between them.

“Cayleb—” she begins, indignation on her voice because why would he _ever_ fuck up his own _book _like that, she would _very _much like for him to _explain_, but the sand doesn’t reach the book at all, and instead are individual grains floating around them in circles. He looks so _heated_ as he gazes at her, his face glowing so much that he looks _ethereal_, looks _angelic_, looks like he’s on _fire_. Her breath catches in her throat as he raises her hand with an uncharacteristic boldness, his smile widening as he brushes his lips over her knuckles. _Fuck_, her _own _skin looks so _lovely _in the coursing magic that makes her head spin, makes this room _glitter_, and for a half-second she allows herself to sink away from the stinging failure of today, allows herself to sink into the _adoration _in his eyes. For fuck’s sake, there is _nothing _stopping her from believing that this look is meant for _her_, that it isn’t just the natural result of casting a difficult and high level spell. She can dream that he loves her, she can dream that she’s someone he could stand to _love_—

* * *

_ Art by [@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. _

* * *

And oh _gods_, she feels _wind _on her face, her hair ribboned and trailing out back _behind _her. She’s _riding_ an animal, an animal that’s strong and has soft hair and a _glorious _mane, an animal whose hooves _thud_ down the rolling green hills, and Jester _opens _her eyes to see a pretty _horn_. She can’t help it, she _screams_ in delight, her fingers _tightening _on the reins of the _unicorn _that she’s _riding_, all perfect and _white_, a heroic animal like something out of her _fairytales_. “What's your _name, _though?” she coos, looking down and noticing for the first time that she’s wearing a _dress_, all lovely and frilly and cascading down her toned blue legs. It’s intricate, shades of pinks and purples, and she realizes, her eyes _wide,_ that there’s a _circlet_ resting upon her head. She reaches out to _touch_—and _oh_, fuck, she feels jewels. It’s a fucking _crown_.

There’s _thudding_, the continued sound of _hooves_ behind her, and Jester’s unicorn—_Sugarplum_, she decides, her lips still stretched into a _huge _smile, because _fuck_, she’s a _princess, _Caleb made her a _princess_—shifts around so that the two of them can watch another horse curiously neigh at them. A _handsome_—and _familiar_, she thinks, looking to Caleb’s gorgeous, intricate cape that trails behind him as the wind picks up on the field—man rides him, and Jester eyes Caleb’s coat and trousers appreciatively as he comes close, his brown horse beside Jester’s unicorn. “Prinzessin,” he says, and though Jester had a slight suspicion he might’ve been indulging her _before_, there is _nothing _but genuine delight in how he smiles at her, watching the pink ribbons in her hair for a moment before his gaze fixates on the freckles of her face. Jester feels herself _flush _at that, _flush _as a pale hand—_no blackened fingertips_, she thinks, and that’s a little heartbreaking, because she thinks his fingers are as pretty as the _rest_ of him, even if _he _doesn’t think that at all—reaches out to stroke her unicorn’s mane. “And what is the _name_ of your unicorn, Madame?”

“_Sugarplum_,” Jester says, grinning and leaning _close_, raising her hips a little from where she’s saddled up to put a hand on Caleb’s cheek. Her thumb brushes his cheekbone, and his breath kind of _hitches_. The thing is that Jester doesn’t _exactly _know what they _are_, they’ve kissed a couple of times and sometimes they hold hands, but leaning over, one hand bracing herself on Sugarplum, to kiss his soft lips feels as natural as _breathing_, as instinctual to her body as kicking at the water at the beach until her head pops _up_, up past the lazy rolling waves cool against her skin. He flutters his eyes shut as she feels his warm tongue prod into her cool mouth, and she _sighs _as they part, foreheads pressed together. "Hey, Cayleb." She looks coyly at his pretty clothes that, while clearly _lavish _and belonging to someone _powerful_ in a fairytale, someone _upper class_, are nowhere _near _rivaling the elaborateness of the bells she's just noticed _now _are woven into the front of her dress, clinking as she moves back to sit firmly on her unicorn. "What is _your _horse's name, though?" Her jaw clenches, and _fuck_, she would normally never _ask _this, but her heart hurts and everything is so _confusing_— "And you didn't give me a unicorn and a crown because you think I'm, you know, _childish_, right?" She bites the inside of her cheek.

"Jester Lavorre," Caleb says seriously, and his smile turns tender. It's the _softest_ goddamn thing, the way that he smiles at her, and Jester feels her heart _thudding _as his hand in Sugarplum's mane pulls _back_, back until it's on her cheek, and the too smooth pads of his fingers are light on her skin. "I don't believe you are _childish_—I think you're talented, and you're _creative_, and that you deserve the _fanciest_ ride in the entire land." His smile widens as Jester feels herself _wiggling _lightly, the compliments easier to take when she's dressed like _this_, when she feels so _composed_ and _powerful_. "And I do not have fancy clothes, and I do not have a fancy steed, because I am, of course, your humble _assistant_." He looks down at the brown horse that neighs as he feels the attention, and Caleb's little smile _widens_ as he looks farther out, making Jester's eyes widen as she follows his gaze. There's a _thick _forest just a _mile _out, one with a nearly opaque canopy that contrasts _sharply _against the lovely pink glow of the sky. The clouds are a deeper red, and Jester _giggles _as she watches some of them coalesce into _heart_ shapes as she tilts her head up, Caleb watching her intently as he makes _changes_, makes this dream world something she can enjoy. "And my horse's name is _Elias_."

"_Elias_," Jester repeats, beaming even _wider _before pointing to the _woods. _The green looks _lively, _even from _here_, and Jester grins at those rigid deciduous trees, all tall and angled properly and proud, grins at how she can _spy_ a stone pathway leading in, this light little bridge structure to arch them over a river that _gleams_ and _shimmers, _reflecting the soft and dragging pink of the sky. "Is that, like, an enchanted _forest_ or something?" Her eyes are wide and hopeful, and she pumps her fist in the air—her nails are painted _pink_, oh Traveler _bless_ him, she wants to kiss Caleb again, kiss him for being so _thoughtful_, for _noticing _that she wants longer hair and actually _giving _it to her in this dream realm, all tied up and elegant as it flows in the air too slowly and elegantly for it not to be a deliberate effect—as Caleb _nods_, looking pleased and _excited_ by her enthusiasm. Jester flushes, already directing her unicorn to turn. _Directed_ is the wrong _word_, actually—Sugarplum seems to hear her unconscious desires, responding to them obediently, and Jester is so _glad_, the horses the Mighty Nein found in Trostenwald, that belonged to the circus, were such _dicks_. "Can we _go _there, though?" She gives him a hopeful smile, her tail flicking behind her because he's _smiling_, which means she already _knows_ the answer, and the answer is something that's going to make her very, _very _happy. It's… it's important to him, that she's happy, and as _much _as she wishes he didn't _see_, she can't pretend that a part of her isn't… _trembling _with relief.

"Of _course_, Prinzessin," he murmurs, his voice all soft and deferential as he bows his head lightly towards her. Jester stares for a moment at the delicate skin of his neck revealed by the gorgeous loosened collar of his smooth red coat, and she _giggles _as Elias actually breaks into a gallop _first_, the muscles of the horse flexing into motion as Caleb leans forward, his grip on the reins tight and purposeful as he moves along the vacant plain of grass. The green is long enough that it shifts with how the wind blows, the collective blades rippling and _moving_, reminding Jester absurdly of when Beau hasn't fixed up her undercut in a while, the loose hair shifting and rumpling as she runs her fingers through it. Elias' hooves, _heavy _against the ground, flatten the grass in his wake, and Jester watches with _admiration_ how _into this _Caleb seems, racing down the pathway towards the river, close to the edge of the forestry, turning to _grin _at her with his hair disheveled, windswept. Jester finds it surprising how much she wants to fix it _up_, or maybe make it _her _brand of mussed as she runs her fingers through it, dragging Caleb into an absolutely _breathless _kiss. "Come _on_, my lady," he calls, sounding like someone out of a _romance _novel.

Jester _giggles_, and as she finds herself wondering how the _fuck _to make Sugarplum follow after her pretty wizard—she finds herself positively _overcome _with possessiveness in this dream world of just him and her, wants to sink into his arms and _never _let him go, _never _let him out of her sight as long as he'll have her in all her petulant glory—Sugarplum is _racing_ down the pathway Elias set for her, following the trail of flattened grass. Jester _gasps _at the sensation of the wind beating at her face, at the breeze combing through her hair, and her silent laughter as her hair becomes loose in the ribbons tying back her wavy blue strands—_long_, she thinks gleefully, _my hair is so long_—makes the tightness in her chest a little easier to bear. Suddenly it feels like she can _breathe_, suddenly it feels like there’s _air_, suddenly feels like living with this brittle smile cracking into this genuine bliss is genuinely possible. Sugarplum slows _down_ as Jester comes close to Caleb once more, sitting upright and pretty on his horse, and she can’t _help _herself, she reaches for him _again_.

He reaches out too, steady on his horse but rising carefully so that he’s still braced on the saddle. Jester’s hands splay out, one after the other, one tangling through the gorgeous strands of his hair—_my kind of mussed_, she thinks smugly as his breath catches—and the other light on the pale skin of his cheek, her thumb grazing his lower lip as he watches with _dark _eyes. She leans forward and kisses him softly, _chastely_, Sugarplum neighing and stamping her hoof against the ground as Jester sighs into it. Her hand _tightens _in his hair, and he groans, making Jester smile against him as she slides her hand lower, having her fingers trail over the nape of his neck and then play with the collar of his fancy shirt. “Prinzessin,” he murmurs, as their noses touch, as she feels his breath hot against her mouth. They’re so close their lips touch a little as they speak, and it’s all a little maddening, all a welcome lightness from how _difficult _this day has been. Essik Theylas _died _because of _her_—and _ah_, she feels a hand, _his _hand—but _not_, it’s _entirely _too smooth—on her waist, playing with a frill as he kisses her once more. She flutters her eyes a little at the sensation of his tongue tracing over one of her fangs. “But what will the people _think_?” His eyes are twinkling just a little, so _teasing _as he watches her face.

Jester really does think he knows what’s playing out in her head, knows the shame that comes when her spells splutter out and she’s able to do absolutely _nothing _to help the others, and she’s so _thankful _he’s not trying to force her to talk about it, to stiffly smile as everyone else tells her _that failure is okay, Jester_. It _isn’t_ okay. She’s a cleric of the _Traveler_, and she hasn’t been as good at enticing people to her cause as _Caduceus _has been—oh, _fuck_ Fjord, she thinks, resisting the urge to _scowl_—but it’s okay right now, she tries to convince herself. Right now she’s pulling Caleb into another kiss, her fingers so _tight_ in his hair as she thinks, _Mine, mine, mine_, greedily biting his lower lip and worrying it before letting go. As if that could help her capture just a little bit of his grace, just some of his genius, something to make up for all the ways in which she’s _lacking_—and his hand _tightens_ on her waist. “Let them _speculate_,” she says, _finally _pulling back to wave a hand dismissively into the air like she really is royalty, like he really is her clandestine _lover_.

Caleb _smirks_, running a hand over Elias’ mane before gesturing to the bridge arching over the river with his sharp chin, raising his jaw to do so. Jester feels her eyes trace over the delicate paleness of his neck for a moment longer before following, with her gaze, where he intends for her to look. He raises a hand, inviting her to go first. “Shall we, Prinzessin?” His voice is so _soft_, so _reverent_, so _impressed_ with her every minute gesture, eyes adoring, at how she _blinks_, how she holds Sugarplum’s _reins_. This acceptance settles over her like a thick honey, making her feel warm and _hollow_, and her chest no longer hurts the way it had before, which is a fucking _relief_. “I’ll follow you anywhere,” Caleb murmurs. His smile recedes a little at that, and he looks at her so _earnestly_, his pale blue eyes _gorgeous _reflecting the pink of the sky. “I would.”

Jester feels a flush spread across her face, a hand reaching out to card through Sugarplum’s fur to brace herself, focusing on the sensation of the white strands between her freckled blue fingers so she doesn’t lose herself in how he watches her move, really trying to see her, trying to see the writhing insecurity that makes the whole of Jester Lavorre. No one before the Mighty Nein ever _cared_ enough to try, and Jester has to admit that it’s getting harder, keeping these walls up. It’s getting more and more difficult to pretend like everything is _fine _when more and more people in the Mighty Nein seem to see through it, like they’re all acting in a drawn out and cliche little charade. It's just that she has no idea how else to _live_, and to admit the way that her heart seems to stutter, the way her jaw clenches unconsciously as she thinks of Essik’s _corpse, _still dead after her faint flickering magic, is _humiliating_. “I might not lead you _great_ places, though,” she mumbles, and she lets out a breathless little laugh. “Even though I’m a _really _good princess, you know.” The easy boast feels false in her ears, it sounds so fucking _false_, what the _fuck_.

“You really _are_,” Caleb agrees easily, and compliments are usually _her _thing, but she thinks he might’ve picked up on how much she watches the others as she says she’s an _awesome _cleric, and the Traveler is an _amazing _god—trying to see if they believe her, trying to see if with all her fucking brightness and _consistency _they’ll believe _in _her, and… indulgent smiles, and careful questions about the Traveler, little implications that he might not be so _good_, that Jester might not know what she’s _talking _about. She can’t help but think, though, of Caleb early on, trying to talk to him, and her _crushing _disappointment when her best friend didn’t respond to the cute guy she was travelling with, and Caleb in the Gentleman’s bar, careful eyes that seemed to see the way her smile was starting to fracture as she danced without music after being unable to dance for so fucking _long_. “And a good _cleric_.” Jester freezes, and he continues, “And a good _friend_.” She stares at him with wide eyes, because it’s _harder_ to deflect when the sky is pink and she’s riding a unicorn, a crown all pretty on her head, and he flushes a little, eyes tracing over the curves of her body and face, looking so _soft_. “And I’ll follow you _anywhere_.”

Jester shakes her head, her loose hair starting to frame her face. Caleb looks beautiful with the pink light washing over him, making the shade of red he wears look gentler, making him look so young and _innocent _as he watches her with vulnerable eyes. His blue eyes aren’t quite _blue_, they’re almost _violet_, and she wonders if that’s a natural phenomenon that comes from the gentle haze of all the damn _pink _around her, or if it’s something a little more abstract, a trick of her selfish mind that wants to claim every part of him, that delights at the idea of him being like _her_. “_Why_?” she whispers, her smile _finally _faltering as she watches the whole of him. The illusion shifts, and she can see how, despite the fine embroidered clothing, his shoulders slumping at the disbelief in her voice, the crease in his forehead getting deeper as his eyebrows furrow, breaking apart the visage of the perfect romantic hero. “I _want_ you to… but you _saw_ today, Cayleb, and I don’t”—she lets out a breathless, pained laugh, the sound feeling sharp in her chest—“I’m not _proud _of today.”

“_Why _follow, Jester_?_” Caleb repeats, sounding mystified by her question—but it isn’t _dramatic_, it isn’t a _scoff_. His words are so fucking _tender _as his lilting voice drags over her name. “Because you’re _you_.” He watches her so _heatedly_, and Jester _feels_ her flush crawl all the way down her neck, feeling so thoroughly _seen _by those sharp and knowing eyes. Jester’s fingers clench tightly around the reins, trying to stop herself from _flinching _at how soft, how wanted, how _needed_ she feels right now. “Because you draw dicks and you sing when you speak and you have a cool handaxe you bought from Pumat Sol.” Jester giggles weakly at that, and he sighs, Elias trotting over until they’re _so _close. He puts his hand over tightly clenched fist. “Because you’re my _friend_, and I’ll follow you. Because you’ve followed me, when I'm not easy to follow. Because you’re _really cool_.” His smile widens, and he leans close, forehead against hers. He’s so _warm_, his skin is always so fucking _warm_, and she always finds it so _comforting_. “Because I _really _like you, Madame Lavorre.”

“… Oh,” Jester mumbles, and his shoulders shake as he laughs breathlessly, right up until Jester feels that _ache_ in her chest, that _ache _that came from endlessly sitting on her bed and drawing all those years, the anxiety that would spike when someone’s eyes would flit onto her and their lips would curl into a frown—_you have a daughter, Madame Lavorre?_ the rare outsiders who found out would sigh, their voices dripping with disappointment that made Jester _still_ where before she was beaming—and she doesn’t… _want _to feel it anymore, doesn’t _want _to live with this _emptiness_. Because she _could_, and it would be easier than _this_, easier than the desperate way that they kiss right now, his hands in her hair as their tongues dance around one another and their teeth clack, a sigh escaping her lips as they pull apart, him trailing kisses over her jaw. It would also be so fucking _lonely_, and Jester wonders how much of herself ever herself escaped her childhood bedroom, her shoulders slumping as she thinks about how, despite how much has _changed_, she is still very much the _same_. “_Caleb_, my spell didn’t _work_, and it _really _sucked.” Her tongue feels _heavy_ in her mouth, and she's wincing, saying it out loud sounds so _petulant_, sounds so _traitorous_.

“Ah,” he murmurs, leaning back and giving her a sad little smile. “I feel the same when my spells don’t work. It’s… embarrassing.” Jester nods, because that’s it _exactly_, and he looks to the bridge once more. “Do you want to talk about it?” Jester makes a _face_ at that, biting her inside cheek because _ouch_, that shit’s going to be _painful _to admit, it's going to be _painful _to admit to feeling numb over how it wasn’t _her_ Essik was thanking, how it was _her _who fucked up as a cleric, and _her _whose magic was _lacking_. His face is so _earnest_ though, that it fights the shame. She doesn’t think Caleb even knows _how _to be disappointed in her, not anymore, and that’s both _thrilling_ and _terrifying_. “Do you want to _talk _and _trot?_” He smiles, pleased with his joke as he gestures to their horses.

Jester only _nods_, because she thinks she might be blinking back _tears_. She listens to Elias and Sugarplum’s footfalls as they begin to walk up to and across the glittering bridge, all perfect and shining over the river that reflects the _pink_ of the sky.

They cross this threshold together. If she falters, he doesn't comment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH!!!! The last chapter of this wonderful collab that I did with Ekaterina ([@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr). So grateful to everyone who followed along <3

Caleb _smiles_, his arcane runes all around him as he chews on licorice. He’s _bruised_, bleeding from the side, and Jester doesn’t _love_ how he sways, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He seems so _confident_, though, as he closes his eyes for a moment, curling his fingers on Beau’s shoulder as arcane words _rip _through his voice—and _oh_, Jester _recognizes_ this one, from how Beau _smirks_. He’s casting _Haste_, and soon Beau is running around so fast it’s _dizzying_, zipping here and there as her punches _fly_, taking down enemy combatants left and right. Caleb maintains concentration on it, jaw clenched as he holds a hand out to Beau, glyphs cascading around it. His gaze slides to Jester for a moment, watching her mime swinging with a baseball bat as she _hits_ people with her high level _Spiritual Weapon_, the divine lollipop making splatters of _blood_ and _guts _of people, and she meets it, a small little smile playing on his face as his _head_ tilts—

Jester’s eyes _widen _with horror as she sees a shadowy, cloaked enemy _snake_ behind Caleb, a dagger _digging _into his side. It makes Caleb’s concentration _break _and his breathing _rasp_, legs trembling for a terrifying moment before he _slumps _to his knees, the bastard pulling out the bloodied dagger and cleaning it on Caleb’s nice purple coat. Jester’s eyes _widen_ with rage, and she doesn’t give a _fuck_ about the _terrifying _amount of damage that man just did with one little cut—she simply _screams_, letting out a string of curses in Infernal as her _Spiritual Weapon _tears into him, the lollipop slamming him against the wall and making him leak _blood _everywhere as he gasps for bracing breath in the impact. He _snarls_, but she _ignores_ him, smirking a little as she hears the crackling of Fjord’s _Eldritch Blast_ tear into him further, making him cough blood against the floor and hold the wounds on his chest. She has _complete _faith that Nott, advancing on the fucker with her slitted eyes so _angry, _will be _more _than able to deal with him, and simply puts a hand on Caleb’s head, running it through his strands as she urgently prays to the Traveler. _We’re a team_, she thinks, as the divine incantations of _Cure Wounds _flit out her mouth. _I need you_.

There’s a half-moment where time seems to _slow_, and Jester flutters her eyes shut as she feels his breath in her ears, feels him bracing his hand on her shoulder as he lends her his magic, his strength. The divine energy is so _warm_, like she’s a mug and he’s filling her with hot cocoa, and though she can’t _see_ him, she _knows _he’s smiling with delight. _As always_, he whispers, his voice intent, _I’ll try to do right by you. As you’ve done right by me._ Jester exhales sharply at the compliment, trying so hard to _believe _it, _believe _this gentleness that he offers, _believe _that it’s without strings, that his love could truly be that freeing, and she opens her eyes as she feels him murmur, _I’ll see you_, the weight of the promise making her _wiggle _a little with happiness as she looks down at Caleb.

He’s opened his eyes, and he stares at her reverently. “I can hardly tell,” he breathes, sounding so thoroughly _charmed_ by her face, bruised and cut from the fight. Jester reaches forward and _squishes _his cheeks, making him bark out a laugh as the man who stabbed him crumples to the ground a couple of yards away. “I don't know if this is life or _death_, Lavorre.” There’s a depth to his voice, an added emphasis, and it makes Jester giggle as she leans down, kissing him and wrinkling her nose at all his cuts. “I _really _can’t, Schatz.” He sounds at a loss.

Jester _winks_ at him. “This is _life_, Cayleb.” Their hands are touching, and her chest feels lighter, less burdened than it has been in a _while._ His hair is a mess around his face, the red perfectly suiting the translucence of his _skin_, and Jester absentmindedly runs a hand through it, feeling it soft between her fingers as she parts them in that way he likes. His gaze follows the movement of her freckled hand, and Jester flushes as his eyes follow the freckles up her arm, visible where her sleeve parts, toned blue skin exposed. "Hey," she whispers, a hand reaching out to graze his cheek. He leans into her touch, his skin so _warm _against the coolness of her fingers. Jester _giggles _as he makes a pleasant sound, her thumb tracing over his cheekbone. He looks so _content _laying there, cradled in her hands, and Jester smirks as she leans down, her hair—_longer_, she thinks, beaming, _it's slowly getting longer_—acting as a curtain while she gives him a chaste little kiss, his lips soft against her own. He reaches up as she gently pulls away, and Jester grins down at him, putting a hand to his _chest_, stopping him in his tracks. "You look so _hurt, _though," she pouts, "I shouldn't _kiss _you right now, the _passion _might injure your face, you know?"

"Will it?" Caleb sighs. He smiles as Jester touches his coat, casting _Mending _to fix the tear. She can't do much for the _bloodstains_, and she gives the crumpled corpse on the ground the middle finger for ruining something so _nice_, so _embroidered_, so _special _to Caleb. _Piece of shit_, she thinks, moving Caleb's head to rest it in her lap as the others start to get up from where they've slumped, starting to coalesce from where they've been dispersed on the battlefield. This of course means no battlefield _make out_, and Jester _isn't _disappointed, she _isn't_—so what if Caleb looks _very _ravishing right now, all languid and pliable in her grip, seeming so thoroughly _hers_? His eyes are dark _too_. He _knows _what he's doing with his head tilted like _that_, perfectly exposing his neck—something she's discovered about Caleb is that he's a bigger _tease _than he purports himself as being. She doesn't want to make them all—well, _Fjord_, she doesn't want to make _Fjord_, the rest are perverts and Caduceus doesn't care—_uncomfortable _with their very romantic and wonderful _attraction_… "In my _research_—" Caleb begins, lips quirking up as he sees the turmoil playing out on her face.

"Did a lot of _research_?" Jester grins down at him, thumb continuing to trace on the angles of his face. It's _lower _now, grazing his chin and then his lower lip. He lets out a shuddering sigh as Jester leans _forward, _kissing him once more on his _forehead_. She grins at his exhale, at this playful facsimile of _disappointment_, and decides to indulge him just a _leetel_. She's not entirely _amazing _at resisting him. Caleb smiles as she carefully kisses the corner of his mouth, the heat of him something she's quickly getting _addicted _to. "I bet your research wasn't as good as _meeeee_." She flutters her eyelids a little, this innocent little movement, and her tail _flicks _happily behind her as she lowers her head and lets out a breathless laugh. One of her hands trail down, bunching at the front of his shirt as she looks at him so _claimingly_, his head in her lap. _My wizard_, she thinks, gently touching his nose and grinning as he wrinkles it. _My perfect, thoughtful wizard_.

"No one compares to you," he sighs, his own hand raising to cup her cheek. The haze in his eyes reminds Jester of that _perfect_ dream the two of them shared, exploring the crevices of the branches, seeing endless delights like little hamsters with _horns _and houses made of _candies. _Caleb _laughed _when Jester began to munch on the door made of such _delicious _chocolate that basically _melted _in her mouth, their hands touching and grazing until they finally entwined, the two of them poring over this _map _they found in the house. Caleb took her on a little adventure, full of drama and twists and _mystery_, the master of this endless _story _that he made purely to lift her up on a difficult day, taking her on a _journey_ where they even ended up fighting a witch! Caleb's face _burned _red as he snuck around her to steal the witch's arcane focus, the source of all her _power_, freezing a little as Jester provided what was, in her opinion, the best distraction in the _entire _world, don't you _agree, Cayleb? _He just sighed, and then nodded his head, looking so _impressed _with her, those pale blue eyes glittering. _I can't believe you flashed her_, he said.

Jester _winked_ at him, but the way her entire face was _flushing _betrayed her embarrassment, even as she happily looked to all the new rings on her fingers, found in the witch's treasure chest. Her fingers glittered with emeralds and rubies and _diamonds_, all cut and perfect and _precise, _and Caleb had turned _pink _when she had given him a ring to wear too, saying it was only _fair_, the smile on her face _uncontrollable_. He watched her then, watched the smile on her face, and she leaned close, her arm brushing his. She could still feel his heat through all his _layers_. The breeze was nice, and Jester listened to the footfalls of the horses trotting with her head cocked, biting her lower lip as she figured out how to respond to his teasing admiration, how to sound sexy and world-weary and _knowing_— _I didn't know what else to dooooo_, she pouted, and Caleb tilted his head back, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. _Also I could tell she was into me, you know? And you needed to get to the arcane focussss. _Anxiety spiked suddenly in her stomach at the thought of _ruining_ his game, fucking up his _plans _that he worked so _hard _on._ Did I do it wrong?_ She hated how _small_ she sounded.

No, Caleb said, his voice _firm. There is no pathway in an adventure that is wrong. I'm just… _His voice trailed off, and he looked to her with a soft expression, his eyebrows furrowed. She wanted to smooth out his forehead with her fingers, kiss the creases with her lips. _I'm just really glad you had fun, Jester._ Her shoulders slumped as her sudden fear was dissuaded, and she gave him an impish but genuine smile. He looked so _happy_, and his gaze on her was so _soft_ that it made her words momentarily die in her throat, his smile so _lovely _in the pink _light_…

His expression looks just as soft _now_, his eyes shining in the same way as he tells her that _no one compares to you_, his voice so fucking _genuine, _like that could really be true. Like it's _possible, _when he stumbled around drunk in Hupperdook with his eyes distracted and the memory of _Astrid_ leaking out of his traitorous mind, quick past his parted lips, trying to stumble back, trying to stumble _away—_and she didn't _let_ him, tucking herself into his side, helping him up the stairs. Jester sees now, all this time later, that the dream the two of them shared was maybe just him repaying the favour. Not that it was some calculated _transaction_, though Caleb might view it that way, and _hate_ himself for seeing it that way, though Jester thinks that's an absolutely fine way to evaluate emotional exchanges, but just… _because you've followed me, when I'm not easy to follow_. It's… _nice_ to have people to count on, to know that they'll… follow her down her most pitiful, winding pathways. She's trying to get used to this idea, though it makes her gut shift uncomfortably. She’s trying to figure out how to live with it.

The dream world he made for her really was so _nice_, and really was so _romantic, _but Jester thinks she might love _this _world more. She _likes _the roughness of his burnt fingers trailing over her blue skin the way they trail _now_, likes how they touch the freckles of her face in that careful way of his. He's always so _careful_. Jester tried to tell him that in the dream world, tell him the burns aren't something that he needs to be ashamed of, that they're part of the lovely tapestry of him, and he said, his voice simple and apologetic, _Then why do you hide how your chest hurts_? Jester _stilled_, because _merde_, of _course_ he noticed how her hand rose and then fell away, fingers tightly curling until her nails were digging into the soft skin of her palm. He smiled sadly at her expression. _Let's take this all one step at a time, ja? Is that alright, Schatz?_

Jester _nodded_ and wrapped an arm around his waist. He mirrored her movement without any hesitation at all. It made her smile, made this all seem not so frighteningly _difficult_, like they weren't too brittle, too good at lies, too _much, _to be able to love, like just because Jester's life would never quite… fit into a fairytale romance, that didn’t mean there was something… _lacking_ in her, _failing _in her. Jester tries to believe other people's assurances these days, tries not to feel so _hollow _when she compliments _herself._ She leaned into his touch _then_ as she leans into his touch _now_, tries to _believe_ his touch _now_, and she _likes _his blackened fingertips. She only hopes he can find what she finds broken and brittle and _pathetic _about herself something worth… sticking around for.

Her hair is falling over her shoulder, it's so _long_, and their eyes meet—and _oh_, his are glittering in that mischievous way they do when he’s _planning_ something, and this _is _life. He's leaning up, Jester's hold on him weaker because of how his warm fingers over her freckled cheek have _distracted _her, the clever _fuck_, and his lips are so _warm _as he captures hers with his, his other hand raising to curl around the nape of her neck. She's vaguely aware of someone else making a _comment_, pretending to _retch_, but she _ignores _them, hands reaching to rest on his waist as she sighs into the kiss. 

This is real life, and she tries to believe in it.

* * *

_ Art by [@otterlyart](https://otterlyart.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. _


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